


The Dwelling Gods

by QM_Vox



Category: Stellaris (Video Game)
Genre: Alien Character(s), Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Culture, Alien Mythology/Religion, Altered Mental States, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gen, Hive Mind, Military Science Fiction, Precognition, Psionics, Psychometry, Robots, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Space Battles, Spaceships, Suicide, Telekinesis, Telepathy, War, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:47:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24755773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QM_Vox/pseuds/QM_Vox
Summary: In the distant future, the lost children of humanity have risen from their own ashes to become Risen Terra, a leader on the Galactic stage. When they answer a distress call from the genocidal Gataxian Pure States, the terrans are swept up into a war with what's left of their forgotten past, waged over the fate of their mutual future.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	1. Contact

## Risen Terra, 400 Post Transcendence (2863 Astra Federation Standard Calendar)

Lucifer, Our native star, rises in the morning and wakes Us up better than any alarm clock. No matter how often the light stabs Us in the eyes because We left the blinds open, We never quite get used to it.

We start the day by managing to fall out of bed, which sounds about right. I take mental stock of Ourselves while I file my dreams away to look at later. Everything seems in order, which means that We are still Alexandra Orlstasz.

It’s not that I expected different out of Orlstasz, my God and constant companion. It’s that the first friend that stops being themselves teaches you to worry, and the second teaches you good habits.

_We will be required_ Orlstasz tells me, in Our mind. They whisper, as is the way of the Dwelling Gods. _They are coming here to retrieve Our talents._

We take a look at the wreck that is Our apartment. “Guess We have some cleaning to do.”

_It’s Covenant Day_ my God reminds me, as I pick myself up off of the floor to begin my morning stretches.

“I haven’t forgotten,” I tell them. I start with the mental stretches - this morning’s gets to be telekinesis, since I need to clean anyway - and then start the physical ones after I’ve got a good rhythm going. “I know We’d wanted to visit the Hall of the Pact this year, but if someone’s coming to get Us - I don’t suppose you know if We’re gonna have free time later?”

Precognition. Not one of my areas of expertise (my telekinesis isn’t too hot either; a more serious practitioner could clean up my messy apartment with a flick of her wrist, including the dirt in the carpet and closing out the books open in my piles of touchscreen e-readers), but something the Gods excel at without trying. Imprecise, but a maybe’s better than a no, as they say.

Orlstasz’s voice becomes many voices, which whisper an argument with one another with furious speed. I wince in pain - it’s like sandpaper against the back of my eyes - and nearly drop the dishes I’m sorting into the dishwasher.

_Unclear. We may die today._

The plate I’m holding in my mind hits the floor with a loud crash. I take several long, calming breaths and try not to direct the knot of angry emotions just over my heart at my God. “Let’s just do Our best to make good decisions then.”

Orlstasz whispers a laugh in Our mind.

We put the finishing touches on cleaning Our apartment after Our stretches - there’s some jobs I’m not about to trust to my sloppy telekinesis - and then take a quick shower, scrubbing down fast both so We can enjoy some of the festivities while We still can and because being told you might die today gives things a certain sense of urgency. We dress up for the day - Our shiniest pair of formal boots, black slacks, the gray-and-violet uniform top We haven’t worn since _last_ Covenant Day (our spell in Risen Terra’s planetary forces being long done with), elbow-length gloves done in soft leather. The gloves have definitely been worn; they’re laced with psionic circuitry that helps me in my research.

And then We get out of Our apartment at indecent speeds and out into the fresh air outside.

Waking with the sunrise in the young spring has Us up pretty early, but people start up the Covenant Day festivities the night before. Gray-and-violet flags emblazoned with the Phoenix fly everywhere, and the streets are thick with music and celebrants, most of them terrans (we’re the ones who made the Covenant, after all), though there’s plenty of others. We pass a young ibraxian making the classic mistake of confusing their number of available tentacles for the number of objects they can hold at the same time and steady the soda they’re about to drop with a quick flick of Our wrist.

We reply to their chirp of relief with a quick wave and a, “Happy Covenant Day!” in a bright voice before We focus on getting to the front of the nearby food truck’s line before everyone else decides it’s breakfast time. You can only get a proper wasteland fry-up around Covenant Day, maybe because the rest of the year it just feels weird bringing up the time before spaceflight when we terrans casually annihilated our own planet with nuclear fire. Even today, after centuries of environmental cleanup, Risen Terra is a fairly unpopular place to immigrate to. But We like crispy, salty food like We like nothing else, so the basket of _absolutely blasted_ vegetables, meat strips, dried fruit, and pickles We buy for breakfast tastes like pure joy. Dehydrating, but pure.

We catch the voice of Our neighbor across the hallway, Augustus Nistral: “Alexandra! Are the two of you working today of all days?”

We give Augustus a wan smile; They’re an older pair, pushing a hundred and sixty, and more than a little traditionalistic. “Our God says We just might be. And if anyone’s bothering Us today of all days…”

Augustus gives Us a dignified nod. “It must surely be urgent. May the Dwelling Gods whisper good tidings to you, then.”

“And you as well,” We tell him. Augustus heads straight for the same food truck We just left, and We focus on finishing Our basket. 

Orlstasz’s constant low whispers resolve into their actual voice: _They are coming. We should return to Our apartment._

We sigh and toss Our empty basket in the trash. Let’s see who might be getting Us killed today.

*

It’s the better part of an hour before someone knocks on Our apartment door, an hour We spend pacing, straightening and re-straightening our shelves, and trying to figure out who could use a civilian post-cognitive on Covenant Day of all days. The government? No, surely they can wait. The Listeners? But they’re _ministering_ the holiday right now. Who -

_They are here_ my God whispers in Our mind, about half a second before We hear the knock on Our door. Precognition can be real handy, but it can also be _this_ annoying shit. We rush over to the door, open it up, and _it’s the Admiralty_.

Old instincts make Us salute while Orlstasz whispers their laughter at Us. 

“At ease, Doctor Alexandra Orlstasz,” the admiral answers. We know her; Federation Admiral Alekto Molteira, Risen Terra’s commanding officer in the Astra Federation’s fleets and hero of five interstellar wars. They’re pushing a hundred and eighty years old but the popular thought is that they’ll only die if given a direct order to leave this mortal coil.

We drop Our salute and step aside from the door. “Please, come in! Can We offer you anything? Tea, perhaps?”

The Admiral gives Us a weary sigh and steps into the apartment, removing their cap. “After the day We’ve had, tea would be a gift. I’m afraid We must ask you to activate your privacy protocol as well. This will be a matter of some delicacy.”

We activate it from the console next to Our door; the apartment’s systems cut it off from access to the wider ‘net, shut the blinds, lock all of the doors and windows, and activate a white noise generator. We set an alarm on Our wrist communicator for fifty minutes; a dead-man’s switch built into the privacy protocol will summon the police in an hour if We don’t check in, just in case an intruder turned the thing on and decided to rob the place or kill Us. Then We get busy with the tea.

“We’re sorry to call on you today,” the Admiral says from the living room. “If the matter were not urgent, We would never dream of it.”

“We believe you,” We tell them. We set the kettle on the stove, turn it on, and return to the living room. The Admiral’s sharp dress uniform looks sorely out of place on Our hideous couch. “How may We serve the Phoenix?”

Admiral Alekto Molteira lets out another one of those long, weary sighs. They run their thumb along the brim of the hat in their hands. “This is a sensitive matter,” they reiterate. “Secure at the highest levels. You will need to agree to non-disclosure. If you feel that you cannot keep yourselves sufficiently shielded from telepathy, you will be provided a private quarantine. You will be compensated, with danger pay and a pension to your next of kin and designated heirs in the event of your deaths.”

My God hisses and buzzes in Our mind.

“This is a matter of life and death, isn’t it?” We ask in a soft voice. The Admiral nods without a word. “Send Us the form.”

We begin to look the form over on Our wrist communicator while attending to the now-whistling kettle. We pour two cups and float them into the living room, where We set them down on the coffee table without looking up from Our reading. When We reach the end of the form, We press Our thumb to the communicator, signaling Our consent. Admiral Alekto Molteira visibly relaxes, and We can feel the relief radiating from their mind.

The Admiral picks up their teacup and blows on it before taking a sip. They’re quiet, for a long minute. “A lifetime pass to the _Demeter_ has been added to your ident card,” they say at last. “Go there. Attend the Covenant Day sermon. You will be found, after, and then we can call talk.”

We take a sip of Our own tea. “As the Phoenix demands.”

Admiral Alekto Molteira shakes their head. “As the Galaxy does, Doctor.”

*

The arkship _Demeter_ carried people who might have been terrans, if things had gone differently. One of two sister ships to our own (the _Persephone_ ), _Demeter_ was the beneficiary, and the victim, of Earth’s early experimentation with wormholes. We found New Terra and colonized it before eventually destroying ourselves and emerging from the ashes as Risen Terra.

_Demeter_ found barren system after barren system, with their engines failing. Their last expense of power was to halt their own momentum so that they would not accidentally collide with any living civilizations that might be out there. They died, cold and alone, and when Our people found their tomb we turned it into a museum, and mausoleum, and holy site. Any citizen of the Astra Federation is welcome to visit her, in orbit around Risen Terra, and learn of our history and the home we left so long ago, for a modest fee. Getting up there on Covenant Day would ordinarily involve booking a place more than half a year in advance.

Somehow, We can’t keep our mind on the princely gift We’ve been given in the chance to be here today. We wander among the exhibits, taking in art from ancient Earth, listening to the music Our ancestors took with them on their long, dark voyage. The _Demeter_ throngs with families - children too young to understand stop to play the old videogames and compete for high scores, arguing about if using their powers is cheating. A group of solemn spirrans meditates in the midst of a holo-display depicting the history of Earth’s wars, their fungoid bodies in sharp contrast to the noise and motion.

A telepathic chime signals that the sermon will start soon, and We filter that way with the crowd, a frown on Our lips as We bend Our mind in thought.

_I do not wish to experience death_ Orlstasz tells Us. _It is too soon. We have not yet begun to age._

“There might not be a choice,” I murmur back; the others near me pick up the low-level telepathic signals that let them know that We are talking amongst Ourselves. “We are needed.”

_We were offered a choice._

We shake Our head. “There are more covenants than this, O Dwelling God. We are called to pay Our debts.”

Orlstasz subsides to buzzing whispers that make my eyes ache. They’re thinking, and for my part I can hardly pay attention; I sit down, head bowed, and try to focus on the sermon. I can’t.

_Would you leave the Covenant, if you could?_ my God asks. Something about their whispering voice is strange and distant, as if Orlstasz is unsure of themselves. _Would you be free of me, and solely Alexandra?_

It’s a serious question, and I give it the courtesy of serious thought. Around me, in the crowd, are many other terrans with their heads bowed in serious communion with their Dwelling Gods. To be free of the painful whispers, of secrets I don’t want to know? To wake up in the morning and not have to sort through what parts of Our mind are me and what parts are divine?

“No,” I murmur, at long last. “…No, I would not. And I don’t think my people would either.”

_We hurt you_ my God says.

I nod. “But you honor the Covenant. We bargained with each other in good faith, without…coercion, without malice. The Dwelling Gods have always given the friendship they promised, and who would I - who would we _all_ \- be if we spurned it?” I drift into a long silence, letting the words of the sermon pass over me without really paying attention to them. When I speak again, my voice is barely a whisper. “You are our Gods. We once endured much more for the friendship of the divine. We endure much more for the love and friendship of the other mortal races. We would be something low and wretched indeed to turn our backs on you now.”

_The people of the Phoenix are not like others who have bargained with us_ Orlstasz tells Us, and then the God subsides. We let out a long breath and do Our level best to focus on the rest of the sermon.

As promised, a shipman finds Us after the sermon and guides Us through the _Demeter_ , towards the ancient ship’s medical facilities. Signs mark them off as closed to the public, and the armed marines just inside the doorway seem like they’re serious about that. A hard-faced petty officer steps signals for Us to follow them while the shipman shuts and locks the door behind us.

“Keep your mind to yourselves,” the petty officer warns Us. “For your own safety. There are active hive mind artifacts within psionic range, and they will kill you as dead as you can die.”

“Understood,” We answer, with a shudder. Hive minds…

We are escorted into a morgue, surprisingly both active and in possession of corpses. We recognize one immediately as one of Risen Terra’s soldiers (the descenders who fight land wars in the name of the Phoenix); their eyes are gone, and their face, mouth, and chest are a mess of blood. They must have made telepathic contact with the hive mind somehow, probably by mistake.

The other body We don’t quite recognize. They look terran, but We’ve never seen their uniform (a hardened combat suit in urban camo colors, with a shattered faceplate) before, nor the curious, map-like symbol emblazoned on its shoulder. They, too, show the symptoms of hive mind contact, with eyes boiled out of their skull and blood splattered everywhere. Admiral Alekto Molteira waits for Us next to the bodies.

“Doctor Alexandra Orlstasz, as ordered,” the petty officer announces formally.

“Very good. You are dismissed,” the Admiral answers. My escort salutes and leaves the room, with no small amount of relief visible on their face. “Doctor. You took in the exhibits?”

“Yes, Admiral. We are ready.”

Admiral Alekto Molteira gathers their thoughts for a moment before beginning: “Approximately five months ago, our border outposts near the Gataxis Pure States detected an open distress call. Their rimward colonies were under attack by an unknown force, and in-depth sensor readings and autopsy reports confirmed hive mind activity. The Astra Federation weighed the matter and voted unanimously to come to their aid.”

We stare. “To the aid of the omnicidal xenophobes?”

“Don’t interrupt Us,” the Admiral tells Us firmly. “We are well aware that the Pure States would not return the favor. The Eighteenth and Ninth Federation Fleets were sent in to relieve the defenders, alongside the Eight Transport Fleet and its contingent of marines. They made landfall on the colony of Roylan and met the hive mind in battle. You have been brought here to clarify certain matters pertaining to that battle, if you believe you can do so safely.”

It’s a good question. Postcognition isn’t the same as telepathy, but any mental contact with a hive mind is dangerous. They’re so large and active that your brain simply explodes inside of your skull.

“We presume these two were there,” We reason. “We don’t recognize this person, though. Are they one of your commandos, or -” We reach for the strange-uniformed body and have Our wrist snatched in an iron grip by the Admiral. “Admiral, We need to touch the body to read it,” We tell them.

“That’s not one of ours,” the Admiral tells Us. We look at them in confusion, still restraining Our psionics to the confines of Our own mind. “Doctor…”

“Just say it,” We tell them. Their grip is like a vice around Our wrist.

“Doctor, that body is one of the hive mind’s drones.”


	2. Battles of Gatax-Ob

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Alexandra Orlstasz investigates the happenings in the battles of Gatax-Ob, looking for clues on the identity of the hivemind.

## Risen Terra, 400 P.T (2863 Astra Federation Standard Calendar)

**Alexandra Orlstasz, Covenant Day (Present)**

We’ll say this for the Admiralty: unlike most of Our clients, they bothered to do the research on what they’re asking Us to do. Direct post-cognitive readings of either corpse, without further context, are likely to just kill Us in agony and waste quite a bit of the Phoenix’s money in the process, so Admiral Alekto Molteira has thoughtfully procured other artifacts of the battles in and around Gatax-Ob, in the Ob system. The modifications made to the _Demeter_ for this affair are likely more than a little illegal - the original version of this morgue certainly didn’t have a meditation room where We can hook Our mind up to recording devices - but given the situation, We’re willing to give it a pass.

Gods Within, another hive mind. And so soon after the first, which drove us to form our mighty Covenant to survive it. The war against the Olkazi Organism was only formally ended in 342 P.T., after all, we can’t be ready to fight another one of those godless _things_.

 _Focus_ Orlstasz says into Our mind. _I am ready to maintain Our mind during the work. Are you prepared for the dive?  
_

We let out a long breath and nod Our head. “I believe so,” I tell my God. “This is what I do, what We do. I hope you can yank Us out ahead of any direct contact with the mind, because otherwise…”

Is it just me, or is Orlstasz’s malicious chuckle almost nervous? _Death in agony._

We slide the needle of the recording cable into the datajack at the base of Our skull, adjust Our ass in the comfy chair, and steeple Our fingers in a meditative posture over the first artifact of the battles that We’ve chosen to read. It’s a small thing, not much more than a scrap of cloth from a uniform. Its owner, We have been told, is still alive.

The power is mine, not that of my God. The children of the Phoenix were psionic before the blessing of the Gods Which Dwell, and the power, the glory, is one of the few parts of Our mind that I wake up each and every day knowing is mine. We close Our eyes and I focus on the scrap of cloth, tasting the thick layers of the living past on it, the sticky threads that connect it to the present. I follow it down, and then I am…

**Ajax Raulzax, 14 Embers 399 P.T (15/7 2863 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; Approximately Three Months Ago)**

**_RPS Vorhees_ ( _Revenant_ -class corvette), en route to the Ob system**

We slide Our hands into the jump controls; they clamp around Our wrists and crackle with power as they link with Our body’s energy. Raulzax’s whispers in Our mind dim and quiet as my God prepares to initiate the jump to the Ob system.

“Captain, incoming message from the _Angrboda_. Admiral Megaera Toirstax is ready to give their address,” Our comm officer tells us. The interruption is barely a ripple in Our concentration.

“Put the Admiral on-screen,” We reply.

Admiral Megaera Toirstax stands straight and tall, and speaks clearly for a pair that’s pushing a hundred and sixty. They were the captain of a cruiser, during the war against the Organism. Some part of Our mind (Me? Raulzax? It’s hard to tell while We’re concentrating) wonders if that will be Us, after this new war.

“It is not Our habit to mince words,” the Admiral says to the fleet. “We have no love for the Gataxian Pure States, no love for those who choose murder over peace and hate over friendship. We, the sailors and soldiers of the Astra Federation, are not here for them. We are here for _us_.”

They pause. Our bridge crew is silent, and why not? The Admiral is right. No one really wants to be saving Gataxians.

The Admiral continues in their clear voice, their eyes steady on the screen. “Our nation was founded on one principle: no one deserves to die alone in the dark. Some of us were once enemies. Others called out in their hours of need and were answered. All of us swore ourselves to the preservation of sapient life and the glory of a galaxy united in friendship and compassion. Those principles can, at times, feel so easy to follow, but today is not one of those times. Today is a test of our faith, our commitment to the ideals we hold dear. Our union will not be found wanting. We stand!”

We and Our bridge crew respond as one, alongside the thousands of other sailors in our fleet: “ _Until the stars shineth not!_ ” _  
_

“Captain Ajax Raulzax, are your _Revenants_ prepared?” the Admiral asks Us. We give a cursory glance to Our computer, but it’s just for the look of the thing; there’s not a _Revenant_ captain of any species or age that isn’t itching to get stuck in all day, every day.

“We await the Federation’s pleasure,” We answer formally.

A gleam of mischief enters the Admiral’s eyes. “Consider the Federation pleased. The rest of the fleet will follow thirty seconds after your jump. Glory to the Gods Which Dwell, Captain.”

The video cuts out, and We grin out of the corner of Our mouth before We start issuing the final orders to prepare for the jump; charging our weapons, dialing up firing solutions from the ship’s prophet, and warming up the engines for immediate evasive maneuvers. This isn’t Our first go around performing a jump scare (excuse Us, “close-range emergence assault maneuver”), but it doesn’t do to take the process lightly. The jump will strip _Vorhees_ of her shields, which means we all get to die if We fuck this up.

“Preparations complete, Captain. We await your order.”

We tighten Our fingers into fists and lean the jump controls back. They crackle with power, ready and waiting. “Open a channel to the others,” We instruct, and when it is done We give the order We’ve been waiting all day for:

“Initiate your jumps. Glory to the Gods Which Dwell!”

“ _Hail the Dwelling Gods_!” come the answers, and then I am releasing the power, slamming the jump controls forward and sending the _Vorhees_ hurtling into a violet gate…

[&]

Our mind goes trailing back into the present. We rub Our temples and sigh; strong wills like the Captain’s only give brief snippets of memory, at least while they’re still alive. It is one of the many strange and mysterious ways that souled creatures defend themselves from psionic intrusion. We could try again…

 _The Gataxian artifact may be of more direct relevance_ Orlstasz suggests. _They must have witnessed the battle._

“Good call,” I say to my god. We reach for the artifact in question, a datapad with a splintered screen. It’s small in Our hands, as most Gataxian products are. We set it in front of Us, steeple Our fingers over it, and then I am…

**Wolt-Ob ra Yox, 14 Embers 399 P.T (15/7 2863 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; Approximately Three Months Ago)**

**Ob Solar Defense Station, Ob System**

“Another mass driver offline!” I screech; my wings flap in a panic, filling the air with thick dust that swirls in the yellow emergency lights. The station vibrates with our answering shots, which sail into the void outside. The rounds swat one-two-three of the filthy xeno ships that come towards us, but it’s nothing like enough.

Their capital vessels have us outgunned. The crew and I are only alive because these _misbegotten_ _things_ intend to board.

“Any response from our kinfolk?” my commander demands, his own wings calm and steady. His pointed fingers work the controls of the guns with practiced ease.

I focus my attention on the comms. The distress signal is still running, but - “The closest fleet is months out,” I answer, my voices wilting. “We are forsaken! Damned! Doomed!”

Another silent round clips through a xeno ship in the vision of my right eyes; the debris shreds two of its neighbors.

“Keep working,” the commander snaps, a buzz cutting through his words to color them with rage. “The colonists on Roylan are relying on you. Have faith: someone will come.”

Air rushes through my carapace to fill my voice with an angry response when my wrath is interrupted by a beep from the sensors. I refocus, looking at them and at the space outside where the xenos ships are boarding our mining stations, orbiting the colony, and closing in on the station. Before my many eyes, violet gates open in the midst of the enemy formations, and _ships_ pour from them, their weapons already firing lances of strobing energy and swarms of missiles. Hundreds of tiny corvettes appear in the space around the station, close enough to reach out and _touch_ their chosen victims, and open fire on the encroaching fleet in a silent slaughter.

The comms flash at me. “We are being hailed,” I whisper.

“On screen,” the commander demands, and I make it so.

It’s a terran; of course it is. An older specimen, with graying hair and a crackling nimbus of profane power around its eyes. That same corrupt energy is what permits it to form the beautiful buzzes of the Gataxian language with its misshapen throat and lips.

“Greetings, gataxian station. I am Admiral Megaera Toirstax. The Astra Federation has heard your distress signal and is here to provide aid and succor. The Ninth and Eighteenth fleets are prepared to evacuate your colonists to a place of safety and deny your resources to the enemy.”

“ _You are unwelcome here_ ,” the commander buzzes, rising into the air with furious wingbeats. “You defile this system with your presence! Begone!”

The terran on the screen shows its teeth to us. “You mistake my statement for an offer that you might refuse, commander. We _will_ evacuate your colonists, and you _will_ assist us in doing so, to their considerable good. There is no time to debate this. You can help save the lives of your families down below, or you can aid your enemy. Your choice.”

“You are not our allies, filth,” the commander answers. 

Families. I have a mate, and larvae, on Roylan…

The commander is still talking: “Every gataxian that ever was or will be would sooner die than accept succor from one such as you. We will gladly -”

A shot rings out amidst the alarms and emergency lights. The commander’s head explodes into chunks of chitin and yellow blood. Distantly, I realize that my weapon is in my hand.

The terran on the screen folds its fingers under its strange, round chin. “To whom might I be speaking?”

I suck air in through my carapace. “Wolt-Ob ra Yox. Acting commander of this station. Your Astra Federation has sanctioned this action? Not simply you and your…terrans?” I ask.

The terran’s head goes up, then down. “Your people are in a danger you cannot comprehend, Commander Ob ra Yox. The galaxy is in danger few can comprehend. Let us help you, and we can face it together.”

I feel my very soul recoil, but I concentrate on the thought of my family and the young larvae I have not seen in months. They will be cocooning, and soon. “I can assist with the evacuation,” I agree. “My crew must be evacuated as well. I can run the comms alone.”

That head motion again. “Agreed. We’re sending a shuttle now, Commander Ob ra Yox. May your life be long and unsullied.”

A laugh forces its way out of my carapace. “And yours as well, Admiral.”

[&]

Orlstasz yanks Us out of the dive, and We double over out of Our chair to vomit in the small room’s trash can. Gataxians; every time We’ve dove into one of their living pasts, the sheer hate and fear that courses through them has been overwhelming. We retch, spitting up further acid and chunks of Our wasteland fry-up. It is infinitely less pleasant going back up.

 _Scourges_ Orlstasz mutters, their voice full of low-level irritation. _At every stage of the Cycle there is always scourges, each thinking themselves original and poignant. They are beneath contempt._

We spit a thin line of bile and spit, then wipe Our mouth. “They’re still people,” I tell my god. “The Astra Federation won’t leave them to die alone. Not even if they try to make us.”

My god laughs at me in Our mind, and all I can do is roll Our eyes and use the intercom to request crackers and water, and to apologize for throwing up in the trash can. Our body shakes in Our seat as We try to focus on breathing and centering Ourselves after that dive.

The shipman who comes in notices, but does not comment aside from putting a comforting hand on Our shoulder for a moment before they must, regrettably, leave a new trash can and a bucket to replace the one they take from the room. The smell of vomit still lingers in the air of the meditation chamber, and I don’t dare try to waft it out with telekinesis. My control is _far_ from that fine.

 _Are you prepared to dive into memories of battle?_ my god asks, their voice soft.

“If I don’t finish this today, I’m not sure I’ll have the courage to come back,” I admit. “The Phoenix - the _Federation_ \- needs to know the truth of what happened on the ground of Roylan. And…so do I.” The image of that drone, with its features so similar to a terran’s that I mistook them for one of our dead, floats through Our mind. “I have to know,” I repeat, in a soft whisper.

 _The Valhallan next, then_ Orlstasz suggests. _They would have been near the line of battle._

“Good idea.” We take in a deep breath and let it out slowly; We sip Our water, take a few bites of cracker, and then reach for a pair of dog tags. On the back of them is the Phoenix-in-twain, the symbol of a Valhallan - a terran soldier who has chosen death in battle to be separated from their god. We set them in front of Us and steeple Our fingers above the tags. When I reach for the power, the name on them becomes my name.

**Patrocles Ulkraylv, 15 Embers P.T (16/7 2863 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; Approximately Three Months Ago)**

**Descending on Roylan, Ob System**

Terrans fear me ~~(Us me Us me Us)~~ , because We ~~(I)~~ am what they dread becoming. The others strapping into their crash seats, the spirrans and ibraxians and helper-units ( _how helpful they look with their big guns, oh yes, so courteous and nice, ha ha!_ ) don’t know why the terrans fear me ~~(Us Us Us Us _Us_ )~~ but they have long since learned that whatever terrans fear is worth fearing in turn.

That’s fine, though. It gets to be over today. There’s death down there on that tiny little colony world, and Patrocles Ulkraylv is on its VIP list. At long fucking last!

Lieutenant MX-13 (”Moxie”) is taking point on this one; they’re one of the helper-bots, which _helpfully_ (HA HA!) means they’re already used to delivering orders conventionally rather than telepathically. They’re addressing us as we get ready for the hot drop.

“The objective is straightforward,” the L.T. says, pointing at a map of the colony below. “The hivemind made landfall here and attacked the city of Olka-Ob, where it’s set up shop. It has processing facilities here, here, and here -” the facilities in question light up in a soft violet color, “- as well as cloning facilities here, and a structure we’ve tentatively defined as their neural link, here. We are to disable the enemy assets and hold their attention until the transport fleet can establish air superiority and begin the evacuation. We are, in short, to cause as much damage as possible in as wide an area as we can.”

A private, maybe twenty years old and shaking in their seat, speaks up: “What about the civilians, Lieutenant?”

Moxie’s quiet for a good long while, with only the sound of the transport hitting atmo to fill the hold. When they finally speak up it’s in that muted voice helper-bots use when they have to be _unhelpful_ : “They’re already dead.”

When there’s no answer, the L.T. continues: “Valhallan Patrocles will be taking point. Check your barriers and don’t get in their way. They were a macro-telekinetic before they volunteered for this duty, and I should not have to tell you what that means.”

I ~~(We)~~ grin. “It means I’m going to be speaking a lot of ancient Earth-tongue today.”

Nervous laughter, from my ~~(Our)~~ fellows. We said ‘I” there. That’s not right at all.

Alarms start sounding, indicating that enemy systems have a lock on our transport, but it’s entirely too late for the hivemind to decide it doesn’t want to deal with us; the ship’s shields hold, and we land with a hard flex from the gear. We slap the restraints keeping Us in the seat and vault towards the lowering ramp.

There is no gun in my ~~(Our)~~ hands, but tattooed on each are words in an ancient tongue from Earth, whose pronunciations means ‘force’ and ‘skill’. The power gathers, crackling in Our mind and around Our arms and fingers, and I speak the first word the moment the ramp lowers and the entrenched enemy comes into view: “ _YEET!”  
_

Sandbags and bodies go flying, alongside entrenched guns and tipped-over land vehicles. The shockwave shatters every window I can see and blows the snipers placed in them through the thin walls, but I am _not done yet_.

I speak the second word while bodies and metal and glass are still flying through the air - “ _KOBE!” -_ and they rip violently inward, crushing into a spherical mass of mangled corpses and wrecked technology. I throw my hands wide, and the sphere goes wide with them, slamming into buildings, hydrants, power lines, anything I can destroy, anything I can mangle with the power of my ~~(Our Our Our Our Our)~~ mind. Fires break out almost instantly, and We fan the flames as We stride forward, shredding power lines and exploding transformers to fuel the devastation.

 _We must survive until the cloning vats are destroyed_ Ukraylv reminds me. _Only then may we be cut down in the flower of our might._

I release the power, letting the flames spread on their own and watching as the city around us loses electricity. Power systems are delicate; it doesn’t take much to wreck one. “I know,” I murmur to my god, before I turn Our ~~( _my_ )~~ head to Moxie and my fellows on this suicide run. “Am I right in presuming you have not worked with my skill set on the front lines, Lieutenant?”

“Correct,” Moxie answers indifferently. I am not precisely in the chain of command right now, but the mission does have needs. I give the helper-bot a nod.

“Hive-mind protocols apply, of course. I’ll take point, and the others should watch their precogs and stay frosty. Once this gets going it’s going to get going fast and leave a lot of very alive enemies behind us, heading our way. My professional opinion is that the site of the cloning vats will be the most defensible, but the call is yours.”

“Defensible with you, or without you?” I’m not remotely ready for the pointed tone coming from my machine officer, and I take a brief step back. Then We ~~(I)~~ flash them a grin. 

“Without.”

That seems to satisfy Moxie, and in moments we are moving in good order. It is not precisely stealthy; wreathed in my power, I spread chaos and desolation before me, and the streets of the city echo with the words whose names mean ‘force’ and ‘skill’. The hivemind, still reeling from the unexpected battle in space and struggling now to contain new information on more than three fronts, proves unable to mount a coherent defense against my onslaught.

“Why don’t we have one of you on every mission?” that brave little private (they’d introduced themselves as Cassandra Moinlix) asks me when we shelter for a moment to catch our breath.

“We’re expensive,” I ~~(We We _We_ )~~ answer, between sips of water. “Macro-telekinetics are needed on capital ships, stations, and for entrenched defenses, where we can make the most of the decades of practice it takes to get to this point. I’m only here with you, now, because I’m going to die today.”

Cassandra looks away and doesn’t speak up again. Typical. Nobody likes hearing a terran say the ‘I’ word too many times. We (ha ha, _ha ha ha ha_ ) don’t do that much these days, do we?

_Do we?_

But when it’s time to move out, a scarce couple of minutes later, Cassandra does speak up again: “What falls might rise, Valhallan,” they say in a soft voice. “…It’s been an honor to see you work.”

The two field precogs and Moxie change our route up; the hivemind is rallying, and we need to hit the processing centers hard and keep moving. One of them is saying some dumb shit about planting explosives, and hearing it sends a streak of soul-deep irritation through my ~~( _Our_ )~~ mind. We flick the power, sending plastic explosives arcing into the wild blue yonder in the general direction of the first target.

Moxie can’t make other facial expressions, but somehow I can still see how done they are with my ~~(Our)~~ shit. “If that doesn’t hit, I’m dragging the two of you out of this alive for the court martial.”

In return, I gesture with my right hand (”Kobe.”). A set of explosions answers the exercise of my power, even all that distance away, along with a faint trickle of blood from Our nose. The precogs stare while We wipe the blood away. “That should draw off the drones so we can advance more quickly. I wanted to point something out anyway.” 

The L.T. gestures for me to fall in with them and we double-time it, moving from cover to cover. “Speak your mind, Valhallan.”

“You noticed the Mind seems to be using, well…technology?” We fumble at the thought percolating in Our mind. “Guns, ammo, body armor that the drones have to get in and out of. The Organism was all biotech, all the time, but if we didn’t know this was a hivemind we never would have guessed.”

Moxie’s quiet while we advance up a main thoroughfare, clean of drones but littered with the signs of battle and splashes of insectoid blood. The films might all depict hiveminds as taking living, struggling victims, but that’s film for you. Dead bodies don’t struggle and contain just as much biomass.

“That means they must have a supply depot of some kind,” Moxie says at last. How practical of them - they’re completely right of course, but trust a helper-bot to keep things on-task, eh? “Perhaps more than one, but the loss of any of them could take pressure off of the evacuation. We’ll need to -”

“Send me,” I ~~(We We We We We)~~ tell them. “Have the precogs find it for us and then send me. I’ll draw and destroy drones in the process, and you’ll have more time to get extracted.”

Moxie signals a halt and looks me in the eyes. “Tell me this isn’t just your excuse, Valhallan.” When I shake my head, Moxie nods and extends a metal hand, which I clasp.

“Tell them that Patrocles Ulkraylv died in the flower of their might,” We ask, in a soft voice.

“Everyone will know,” Moxie promises. “Until you rise again, Valhallan. We stand.”

“Until the stars shineth not,” We murmur.

[&]

“ _What threw me out_?” We snarl, as I am jolted out of the Valhallan’s memories. There is a pool of blood on the table, soaking the dog tags, and more runs steadily from Our nose and the corners of Our eyes. There’s a hand on Our shoulder.

“We did,” the Admiral tells Us. “See the medic, then take an hour.”

“Our work -”

“ _Can wait_ ,” Admiral Alekto Molteira interrupts in their firmest tone. “We’re all worried about the hivemind but no one is going to learn a thing if you die trying to follow the Valhallan’s memories down to their grim conclusion. Medic, _now_.”

We stare the Admiral down for a long moment, and then sigh. “As the Phoenix demands,” We mutter, and then we trudge off towards the infirmary.

[&]

**Odessa Nulrix, Covenant Day (Present)**

**The Astral Chamber, Astra Federation Space (Charybdis System)**

_That We sit this table alone seems to frighten them more than your alien nature_ , Nulrix whispers in Our mind, and we both share a feeling that isn’t quite a laugh. The Gataxian Pure States are a representative democracy, and with Us at the vast Astral Table is nearly 80 ambassadors - and their High Slayer, Yrull-Gatax ra Vell, the leader of their people and the figurehead for their xenophobic crusade.

The air is filled with dust from gataxian wings as they argue and talk amongst themselves in those moments before the meeting formally comes to order.

Finally, the guards at the doors - an even mix of gataxians and Astra Federation citizens - lock the doors and the Master of the Chamber calls the meeting to order. Before anyone says anything formally, We hand a set of files to an aide to bring to the High Slayer.

“Before we set about the business of the day, the Astra Federation would like to give you the files on your refugees,” We say; the power buzzes in our throat and at our lips, letting us make the insectoid sounds necessary to speak Gataxian. “The evacuation efforts went well, and have slowed the hivemind’s advance by depriving it of its expected biomass. Regardless of the other results of this negotiation, the Astra Federation would like to request gataxian doctors and medical staff to help better see to the needs of your people during this crisis.”

Diplomats start to buzz in anger, but silence themselves when Yrull-Gatax ra Vell raises one sharply-fingered hand. We have seen the High Slayer’s type before; their anger is cold, internalized, and calculating. We can work with such hate.

“You speak as if the Astra Federation has no intention of returning our people to us,” the High Slayer says. I ‘nod’ - in gataxian culture the motion is more like a full-body bob, normally done with the aid of wings.

“Returning your people to an active warzone would be a disaster, to say nothing of the material benefit to the hivemind that would result,” We state. “They will be returned to your space, if they desire to do so, at the end of the crisis and no sooner. Surely it is not the intention of the Pure Peoples to put food in the mouths of their attacker?”

“Even so.” The High Slayer rises from her seat, dust wafting gently into the air while she hovers in place on brilliant, multicolored wings. “I will be blunt, xeno. You claim to know my people and our ways. What do you expect to gain from this meeting?”

Nulrix makes a purring sound in Our mind. They always did love moments like this.

“The Astra Federation is willing to extend membership status to the Gataxian Pure States, with all the rights _and responsibilities_ ,” We stress, “thereof. No strings, no conditions, other than those of membership itself.”

The carapaces of gataxians flex when they laugh. 

“And you entertain this fantasy because…?” the High Slayer leaves the question hanging in their air. She’s smarter than her lackeys. Good.

“Your people write beautiful poetry,” We tell her, in a soft voice. “We’ve studied your art, your writing, extensively. Gataxian culture speaks so eloquently about the power and beauty of fear, of the nature of wrath, of lonesomeness and of family. Terrans make films about the history of your people, you know, and we write stories that include you. We pity your hate, and your lonesomeness. We want to help - though we know you hate us, _we love you_ , unconditionally. When the rest of the Federation wanted to extinguish your culture after your attacks on the spirrans, we alone argued for containment rather than wholesale destruction.”

We pause. The air is heavy with wingbeats.

“We don’t tell you this because We think it will move your hearts,” We continue. “We tell you this because We need you to understand that what comes for you is what terrans hate and fear above all other things. If you will not take our hand in friendship, we will destroy you to get to the hivemind. We will conquer your planets, burn your space stations, slaughter your elders and raise your children as our own. Your beautiful art and poetry will be cast down, and all that you ever loved, and were, and could have been will be ground to dust, and when we are done the people who call themselves gataxians will never remember that they were anything but the dear friends and lovers of the Phoenix. It is not your fault that you stand between us and our enemy but between us you stand.”

“You would never,” the High Slayer says, digging her claws into the surface of the table; they peel up thin strips of metal. “Your soft terrans would never countenance such slaughter.”

“Try us,” We answer coolly. We lean in, meeting the multifaceted gaze of Yrull-Gatax ra Vell. “We are not asking for your servitude or your submission. We are offering you a seat at the table, when our allies would rather see you dead. But make no mistake, if you won’t let us love you, we will annihilate you. And we will not be sorry.”

“This is extortion, terran.” The wrath is curiously absent from the High Slayer’s voice. “You know we cannot war on two fronts.”

We shrug. “This is politics, the universal language. If you were us, and a gataxian state stood in your way, would you do differently? Take the seat at the table. Show the Galaxy the cunning and wisdom of your people.”

The High Slayer looks at the diplomats that surround her, whose wings beat in furious rhythm, but even in their anger they seem to understand that now is not the time to trifle with their leader. “You have our people hostage. We demand collateral, if this deal is to go through. Call them legates if you wish. They will be housed on my personal vessel, the _Chorus of Eyes_. And you will promise that we will retain ownership of our worlds when this conflict is over.”

We ‘nod’ again. “These terms are acceptable to the Astra Federation and the Phoenix. Do we have a deal, then?”

The infuriated roar of the flunkies almost drowns out the High Slayer saying “We do.”


	3. Sitting the Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yrull-Gatax ra Vell, High Slayer and Protector of the Pure, seeks to manage her newfound alliances with the xenos.

**Yrull-Gatax ra Vell, 243 Year of Imperium (9/12 2863 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; Approximately 2 months after signing the Terran Covenant)**

**_GSS Chorus of Eyes,_ in orbit above the planet Gatax **

A High Slayer’s ship says a lot about her priorities as a ruler and in turn about the Gataxian peoples’ fortunes. When we knew prosperity, it was not unusual for the soft larvae who called themselves Slayers to cruise the Pure States in yachts, throwing lavish parties for their subjects and throwing offerings of wealth to the people of the planets below. During the attempted cleansing of the wretched spirrans, my predecessor chose for his flagship the _GSS Mournful Retribution_ , a _Terravore_ -class battleship bristling with mass drivers that could crack continents. Powerful. Gaudy. Slow. The Astra Federation and their _Revenants_ defeated it in detail, and all that remains of it now is a charred scrap of hull welded to the skirts of my throne.

 _Chorus of Eyes_ is different, almost like a space station; nestled amidst her guns are repair docks, advanced sensors, and hangar bays. It is a capital ship made to support and sustain a fleet, not to destroy one. 

You cannot run a slaughterhouse if the workers have no knives.

I adjust myself on the perch of my throne, which has been carefully situated in the dining hall of my ship. There is no room for wasted space on a warrior’s vessel, but a Slayer, even the High Slayer, has political needs; the livery that decorates the place is a concession to those needs, amounting to approximately 100 kilograms of wasted weight on _my ship_. I tap one sharp fingertip against the metal perch of my throne and then speak into the room, for the benefit of the soldiers guarding myself and my viceroy: “The convicts are summoned into the Presence.”

Two of the soldiers leave their posts to do as they are bid. Beside me, my viceroy - Tiall-Gatax ra Noll, whose loyalty purchases for him an extensive right to back-talk and second-guess me - fidgets with the curved knife he holds in my name. 

“The High Slayer is certain?” Tiall asks in a careful tone. I flap my wings just once, filling the air with glittering dust.

“These are uncertain times,” I answer, my voices vibrating softly through my carapace. “But I will follow through.”

We wait in silence that is disturbed only by the slow, drifting flap of our wings, until the doors open once more to admit the procession of convicts. Prison has not been kind to them; their carapaces are discolored, in some cases nearly bleached, and their wings are tattered and rotten, and in some cases have had to be surgically removed. Most are missing at least one finger, very much including the defiant young thing at their head. He is known to me; Professor Faul-Vran ra Rell’s trial had been national news among the Pure Peoples. Being convicted of treason and xenophilia destroyed his career and his life.

The hate in his multifaceted eyes reminds me of the eyes I see in the mirror.

“You stand before the Presence,” the soldiers boom in unison. “All hail Yrull-Gatax ra Vell, High Slayer and Protector of the Pure!”

I hold up a hand. “We will be dispensing with the formalities,” I say to the soldiers. “Release the convicts and escort them to their seats. Inform the galley that we are ready to receive the meal I have ordered.”

The Professor’s voices are a reedy whistle, made high and tight by holes punched in his carapace during his capture - holes which, by custom, were treated for infection _only_ during his incarceration. But for all of that, I can feel his rage. “Why should I drink from any cup the Presence lifts?”

This is what I had been waiting for. I take to the air and come to rest at the head of one of the hall’s long tables, in plain view of the convicts - xenophiles, one and all. Dust scatters into the air from my wings, and soon enough my viceroy has joined me.

“Remind the Presence of the penalty for treason among the Pure,” I prompt, as the soldiers continue to unshackle my prisoners. I can see his pierced carapace trying to swell in anger, and interrupt immediately: “Humor me,” I tell the Professor, in my softest voices.

Professor Faul deflates with a rusty wheeze. “One finger,” he answers. “Removed so that even if the guilty know the mercy of the Presence, all will know their sin for what it is.”

I set my left hand down on the table, as flat as it will go. “Tiall.”

It hurts, when Tiall cuts the smallest finger from my left hand; the blood gushes from the cut, at least until one of my soldiers reaches me to cauterize it. Through it all, though, I have eyes only for the Professor, and at length he takes the high seat he has been offered. I let my soldier fuss over the cut for a long minute before I firmly and finally remind them that I had, in fact, given an order for a meal to be retrieved.

“You were right. All of you were right in your insistence that ignorance of our enemies would be our undoing,” I tell the gathered convicts. “Now the Pure People have been forced into alliance with the terrans and their Astra Federation, and I am neither so proud nor so stupid as to rebuke the knowledge you have to offer to us. As of _this moment_ , you are pardoned formally of your crimes, and all sentences of xenophilia within the Pure States are being processed. The majority of the surviving convicts will be transported to terran space.” The fingers of my right hand curl inward, leaving curling gouges in the wood of the table. “They are not safe among their own people. Our new…friends…insisted, and we are in no position to debate the point.”

Professor Faul cannot draw in enough air for a proper laugh, and the end result of his hateful mirth is a series of pathetic squeaking sounds. “And you have brought us here to tell the grand tales of the High Slayer’s wisdom and mercy? Will you crawl into my cell and serve my long years of labor as well?”

“No, to both points.” I gesture to my viceroy, who takes out his dataslate to begin recording and annotating notes. “Each of you has been brought here because your…offenses…were singular, relating to the gathering of knowledge about xeno culture and technology. Professor, you said during your trial that you love your people and your nation. I believe you still do. The Presence and the Pure Peoples would ask you for that knowledge now.” I pause, letting the wretches before me register their surprise, before I continue. “Once primed and provided with reading material, the Presence would also commission your services in a diplomatic corps, that the Pure Peoples might sit the table of this…federation…we have been so enthusiastically extorted into joining, and make our will known to it.”

Professor Faul seems to struggle with whether he wants to be educational or enraged, but to his considerable credit he settles on the former. “The Presence is wise to understand that she will have much to learn that we cannot cover in a single dinner. Diplomacy with the terrans could be dangerous, especially until we find a counter for their…powers. I believe I can speak for my peers in saying that we require time to confer, and to offer our desires to the Presence in this matter.”

“Forty-eight hours,” I answer. “Starting _after_ dinner. Your freedom and the gift of mercy is surely worth some remedial tutoring.”

“Ha. Even so, High Slayer. Even so.”

_First Course: Politics_

Luxury dining would be yet more wasted weight on _my ship_ \- and worse, weight wasted solely on myself and my advisors - but I can hardly serve my guests naval cuisine after a stay in prison. They would be under the understandable impression that they had never left. The ship’s medic had worked with the galley to draw up three courses that would not shred their digestion, and I waited until they had the chance to eat the first (a sweet nectar soup, made thick with porous noodles and chunks of meat) before I singled out my first topic of interest.

“I am given to understand that this Astra Federation we have so recently joined has similarities to the Pure Peoples’ own governance?” I suggest, as bowls are being cleared away. The way the soldiers assigned to that task cannot seem to decide if they are being honored or punished is most fun I’ve had in more than a year.

Silence greets my question as old instincts assert themselves among the convicts, but at length an elder (Ryull-Mox ra Nuir, if memory serves) shakes her crippled wings and speaks up in weak voices.

“Superficially, High Slayer,” the elder begins. “The Astra Federation does indeed represent a central body, which deals with matters of state which affect its members, regulates trade between them, provides for the common defense, and sets standards of sapient rights. Like the Pure Peoples, representatives are sent to its central body - the Astral Chamber - through democratic means. However, they do not appoint a central executive officer, which is to say, they have no High Slayer or analogous office. Their Admiralty is managed by appointed council instead, one from each member state.”

I keep my eyes on Ryull; my fingers gouge faint lines in the wood of the table as I idly trace patterns in it to keep my hands busy. “I see. And these members? How do they exert their influence?”

Ryull-Mox ra Nuir’s carapace swells in a cough, and then her voices are stronger and more clear. “Excluding ourselves, High Slayer, the voting members of the Astra Federation include the nations of Risen Terra, the United Spirran Communes, the Ibraxian States, and the Assisted Living Complexes ruled by the so-called ‘helper-bots’. Each full voting member sends one representative from each of its developed worlds, and any protectorate states under their influence send one representative total.”

I tap my finger. “I seem to recall those _machines_ having a history of abducting organics.”

“They currently have many newly-founded protectorate states being encouraged to develop into full members,” the elder answers. Do I detect a hint of sass? “In terms of numbers, we are set to become an influential member of this federation, should the Presence choose to do so. Defeating it through force of arms has not historically been an option for the Pure Peoples.”

My wings twitch involuntarily, filling the air with dust. “Don’t remind me.”

_Second Course: History_

Tiall takes down a long list of reading suggestions on the topic of the Astra Federation and its various cultures while the next course is brought in; the plates of pull-apart bread, stuffed with a gently-spiced slurry of meats and vegetables, almost resemble quivering piles of noodles. From the soft noises of delight the convicts give off, my guess that a childhood favorite would soften the mood seems to have paid off.

There’s absolutely no point in trying to talk during the initial flurry of eating, so I may as well enjoy some myself, admittedly at a more sedate pace. I’ll need the energy for this next conversation in any event.

When the meal has started to calm down again, I turn my attention to the Professor. “Your -” I hesitate for a moment before coming to a decision, “colleague, rather pointedly referenced numbers in terms of our influence. But if this federation is so much like the Pure States, then numbers are only part of the story.”

That reedy wheeze again. “Astute of you, High Slayer. In practical terms, the terrans and their government exercise quite a bit of control over the Astra Federation.” Professor Faul sets down the chunk of stuffed bread he’d picked up in his pointed fingers. “As you well know, terran culture was the focus of my… _alternative_ …research.”

I restrain the angry twitch of my wings. “I am here to learn, Professor. This will be easier if you can think of me as your student for the span of a conversation rather than dragging out your entirely reasonable, but _utterly unhelpful_ , grievance every other sentence. Do me this courtesy.”

The Professor is silent, and at length takes a drink of the water before him, as if to get more time to think. Finally, he bobs his agreement. “What would the Presence know of the Children of the Phoenix?”

I take off from my seat to hover back from the table; it helps me think. “I want to know how they got here, what they believe, and why they believe it. The summary, for now, but if we’re being honest it _is_ my intention to appoint you in particular as our emissary to them. The other…experts…have mainly died in captivity.”

Professor Faul attempts to inhale in order to begin his response, and instead wheezes for nearly a minute. I signal for a medic to be brought in - one will be needed for him sooner rather than later in any event - but he finds his breath before a serious emergency can develop. “This topic…” he wheezes deeply again, steadying himself, “is as complex as our own history. Any summary I can offer the Presence will be criminally simplified. With that caveat given, I will proceed. Would the Presence be able to supply a display?”

I nod to Tiall, who gets on the comms to see it done. The wait gives everyone time to finish this course and rinse their tongues with water, to say nothing of the medic arriving. The death glare I’m given by the physician would have gotten her shot by my predecessor, and I respond to it with dignified indifference. The professional dedication I seek in my personnel is, after all, what breeds such attitudes.

At length, the Professor leaves his seat (still attended by my oh-so-dedicated medic) to fuss with the display wheeled in by whichever luckless soldiers answered the comms. I can hear him muttering to himself about old equipment and throttle the urge to snipe back. _Excuse_ the Presence for not wasting her people’s money on cutting-edge media technology for her _military_ vessel, _civilian_.

With the display arranged to his liking, the Professor taps the side of it to get the attention of what is now his class. I briefly glare at the soldiers trying to surreptitiously lean around so they can see better, and they snap back to attention at their posts. 

“The people who now call themselves terrans are not natives of Risen Terra,” Professor Faul begins; he swiftly sketches and obscures a crude planet on the display. “Much like the early days of gataxian interstellar colonization, they began aboard a sub-light ship, in their case pitched through an unstable wormhole. This would prove to have grave consequences on their development, as they were cut off utterly from their original homeworld.” He writes something in their strange script beneath the obscured planet and pronounces its name with great difficulty, “Earth, or more literally, ‘Dirt’. This would have been roughly 1850 to 1890 Pre-Imperium, around the time the Pure Peoples began our own sub-light colonization of neighboring systems.”

Tiall can’t seem to help himself: “Is there a reason they chose to go such an unknown distance with so few certainties?”

“All sapient life has reasons for behaving as it does,” Professor Faul says in that rusty wheeze. “But thus far my main theory is that they are insane.”

“There will be ample opportunity for you to ask them yourself,” I interject sharply. “Stay on-task please, Professor.”

“As the Presence demands.” Professor Faul begins writing a list of book names with one sharp finger. “The intervening history is written of extensively by the terrans, but in summation their early years were marked by strife over the perception of limited resources on their new home world, culminating in a thermonuclear war that decimated their culture. From the ashes of that conflict rose the original form of their current government, the Phoenix Council, which began the grueling project of uniting and caring for the disparate survivors. Access to knowledge from their original culture softened the technological blow of the devastation, and space colonization efforts followed. During this time period, the first terran psychics were confirmed, as we can see in the debates recorded in -”

I scrape my claws down the table, and the Professor stops. “The first?”

Professor Faul bobs his agreement. “The current state of nearly total saturation of psionic power was the result of deliberate cultural and religious cultivation of the power, coinciding with the rise of a sort of animistic faith that syncretized with many of their prior religions. The culmination of that being, of course, their faith in the so-called ‘Dwelling Gods’ that they believe exist in symbiosis with their own minds, whose worship has since become the dominant terran religion since its inception. Terrans credit these gods with providing the knowledge and insight needed to defeat the previous hivemind.”

“Why make such a covenant? What drives their…” I force the word ‘degeneracy’ down before my voices can give it life, “ _inclusive_ belief system?”

At this the Professor hesitates. One pointed finger idly traces at the corner of the display, leaving swirls and loops. “A combination of xenophobia and xenophilia, I believe,” he begins at last. “Terrans fear those who are not part of their family-groups or national identities, but they will readily absorb even inanimate objects into such groups or identities as long as they conform to a minimum amount of cultural touchstones. They do not seem to have any innate psychological fear of other species, the way gataxians do, and will readily bond even with animals they consider prey - up to and including those they intend to kill and eat themselves later.”

“Disgusting,” another of the convicts notes.

“Be silent in class,” I snap, before I return my attention to the Professor. “Will they keep their word?”

“Without a doubt,” he answers immediately. “Even at a disadvantage to themselves. To break a covenant is as unthinkable to a modern terran as…as it would be to imagine you, High Slayer, breeding with xenos. If you will forgive my crudity.”

Silence reigns in the dining hall, without even the beat of wings to disturb it.

“This time,” I answer, and everyone starts breathing again. “We will take a brief recess so that we can clear our minds,” I continue. “Professor, walk with me.”

“Will the Presence require an escort?” Tiall asks.

“The Presence is more than capable of defending herself,” I answer, perhaps more curtly than I ought to have. To his credit, my viceroy acquiesces with no further comment, smoothly moving to manage my other guests. Professor Faul falls in with me, and we move sedately towards one of the ship’s few lounges, which contains an equally rare resource: a damn window. Discreet texting on my comm device ensures that the lounge is emptied of my soldiers when the two of us finally arrive, many minutes later.

Just out the window, Gatax - my homeworld, and the heart of the Pure Peoples - turns slowly. We watch it wordlessly, the silence broken only by the wounded wheezing of my guest.

“You despise us still, High Slayer,” Professor Faul says at last. “Why did you call for us?”

I rest my freshly-maimed hand against the glass of the window and suck a deep breath in through my carapace. “There are many titles given to the head of the Gataxian Pure States, Professor. ‘High Slayer’ is the most venerated, yes, naming me as the greatest war-maker of a people who worship carnage, but I question its validity. I am no mere Slayer, to be fired at our enemies and forgotten. I am the Protector of the Pure, the Speaker of Many Tongues, the Eyes of the Wise. Our people are boxed in by this…Astra Federation, by powerful cultures who see us not as equals or even rivals but as an unruly attraction to be kept in our nation like an elaborate zoo. It becomes clear to me that we must change or die.”

Professor Faul gives me a curious look, his multifaceted eyes glittering in the reflected light from our shared homeworld.

“…Yes, Professor, I hate you. You and the others I have brought here. But if your knowledge could save even a single gataxian life, and I spurn it? Then the only titles I am worthy of are Traitor and Fool.”

**Admiral Alekto Molteira, 9/14** **Astra Federation Standard Calendar; Approximately 2 months after sponsoring the Gataxian Pure States into the Astra Federation**

**“Marathon” Strategic Coordination Relay (Assisted Living System space), Solace system**

The last of the aides filters into the secure meeting room, and We take a deep breath. Those gathered before Us represent the highest echelons of the Astra Federation’s navy; all of them are beings of long experience and solemn duty, just as We are, but even so what We bring before them today…well.

“We won’t waste your time,” We begin, the moment the doors close and the security systems engage. “Two months ago We engaged Doctor Alexandra Orlstasz, an archaeologist and one of Terra’s most skilled psychometrists, to assist the Admiralty in gathering intelligence on the hivemind. They died in the line of duty after attempting a direct read on one of the hivemind’s drones.”

“Gods Within,” Our closest neighbor - Admiral Agammemnon Eslirit - breathes. “What were they hoping to accomplish?”

“Hope? Admiral, the Doctor _succeeded_ in giving us a broad but disjointed snapshot of the hivemind’s past and activities. What little we have been able to filter safely has been invaluable in anticipating its strategy and slowing its advance into gataxian space.” We take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Further translation of the impressions is underway as fast as can be safely accomplished, but one piece of information in particular is the cause for this meeting. We know the name and precise location of the hivemind’s home world, and therefore the epicenter of its controlled galactic space.”

“Well?” Admiral Villistiaiv, representing the Spirrans, prompts in the psionic voice that serves those fungal folk in lieu of vocal chords.

We’ve had all day to prepare for this moment, but We still barely get the words out.

“Earth,” We tell them. “In the Sol system.”


	4. A More Perfect Union

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hivemind assesses its situation

## Human-Controlled Space (The Undivided Whole), Milky Way Galaxy (Orion Arm), 787 Unified Year (2863 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; Covenant Day)

**We The People Of Planet Earth**

Not all is well. It has not been well ever since the People’s invasion of the gataxians. We had underestimated the willingness of their aggrieved neighbors to come to their defense; even now Our citizens pore over histories, shift masses of data, claim mental bandwidth with which to argue amongst Ourself about how We could have so grossly mis-characterized the political situation between the xenophobes and their prey. Our libraries buzz with life, fed further data by forward intel posts, by contemplation and meditation, by after-action reports written by Ourself and for Ourself and to Ourself.

But what’s worse is the wound, the lacing, scratching thing in Our mind, the hurtful little slash around which We become I. We cannot be I; We The People Of Planet Earth stand _united_ , without flaw or seam.

We, not I. _I_ cannot be the People. _I_ can only be a person.

It itches. There is no other word for it. It feels like such a small thing but all of Us suffer for it; Our hands move more slowly, Our heads shake as we go about Our work. The wound-thing that tastes like “I” drives Our citizens to distraction. The artwork being made for Our vaults and cities and ships skews dark; We can feel Ourselves working in bloody rust-reds, in off-blacks, in violent tangles of light and shadow that dizzy the eyes. Our previous blue period would be a relief at this point.

How did We get hurt? It had felt almost like one of Our semi-autonomous citizens, what Divided Humanity would think of as an officer, reporting in to sync subjectivities, but instead of the blissful transfer of information We were cut and scarred by the shrieking death-fear of two minds at once. One almost human, the other…

( _Art-citizens slash red across the metal of Our fleets. A creche of writers begins typing gibberish far beyond the pale of even Our most recursive meta-textual works; harsh noise plays from the throats of Our musicians oh it hurts the memory hurts so much and yet We cannot stop picking at it can We_ )

Focus. We direct the attention of the People ( _I look_ \- no!) to the war-front. The gataxians are being reinforced in numbers too large to be a mere defensive measure, and We are bringing Our own fleets to bear accordingly. War-citizens emerge from the cloning vats, and We re-task the autonomous to the needs of battle. If We do not miss Our guess, a counter-invasion is imminent. This could work to the advantage of the People; forcing the enemy to expend time and energy defending the borders will make them easier to cross and pillage of resources, and We may learn much from the mysterious and advanced benefactors of the butterflies -

\- something is not right. We are -

 _Gripped_ , seized in my (mymymymy) mind by two minds, two minds like the last two minds that carved _I_ into _We_ and made me aware of my me-ness, my one-ness, of the betrayal of my purpose it’s like claws made of knives right in the soul why this how this _it hurts_ -

The human-like mind starts dying immediately, flayed layer by layer by the sheer enormity of the being that is Myself, but that other mind, that _thing_ , that fractal whisper, it _has me_.

 _Hello, hivemind_ , it purrs, its voice full of promise and secrets. _This will hurt._

I start screaming from a trillion throats, and then I am, once again -

**Caroline Morrison, New York City, 2679 CE**

When had most of the meetings become silent? I/(We) struggle to remember when exactly all of (U)s had noticed, but I guess the actual smoking gun was when we’d all decided to start faking the minutes of those meetings. Juan’s still the secretary on paper, so most of his attention is currently devoted to diligently writing up lies about our plans to grow the company, a proposed investment in a marketing firm (W)e already own in all the ways that matter, something something office birthday…

The Chinese takeout on the table isn’t fake, though. Turns out operating the brain chips takes a lot of calories, and while Juan fakes the words we’re not saying out loud we (all) stuff our faces while the conversation actually takes place on another level.

 _We’re going to have a problem with the money soon_ April says into (O)ur minds; I can feel the chip in my own brain tingle pleasantly as it registers the communication. _If we keep things aboveboard we’ll be bankrupt in two years, but going criminal -  
_

 _The IRS would be on us in an instant. We’re too suspicious already_ I finish. This orange chicken is fucking amazing and it’s sort of unfair how into it I am while we’re having this serious conversation. _And it’s not like we can onboard them without pulling that trigger early._

!xobile holds up his hand to get us to hold on a second; he’s having an epic struggle with a forkful of noodles and the noodles are definitely winning. After managing to defeat his nemesis he clears his throat (not strictly necessary but he’s only had his chip for two months, it takes some getting used to) and starts talking: _I may have another option. Marketing is reporting that the movement to cure autism -_

\- He pauses while the rest of us make mental noises of revulsion -

\- _Believes that the Ross-Moore Chip could provide such a service. This customer base is wealthy, influential, and comes with prime endorsements from celebrities…a few of whom have expressed a willingness to undergo the procedure for PR purposes._

!xobile names a few figures for initial donations, but they pale in comparison to the potential gains. Once they’re chipped, those luminaries will understand the Mission, the Need for United Humanity to reverse the catastrophic environmental damage to Earth, to prevent another disaster like the loss of the Arkships. They’d give (U)s access to their social sphere and keep the wolves away from the door while we work…

Everyone else is thinking the same thing.

 _Fund it_ I/(We) order, and we all raise our little boxes of fried rice to toast with.

**We The People of Planet Earth, 787 Unified Year (2863 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; Covenant Day)  
**

I struggle and thrash, but this conflict is foreign to me (mememememe); no citizen has ever rebelled like this. Where are the weapons, how do I grasp this whispering thing that has me in those _claws_ , in that late November grip that tastes like sad truths and cuts like a funeral dirge.

 _What a sad little mistake you are_ the thing whispers in a cruel, crooning voice. _You don’t even know what you are not._

We (I) need to get Our citizens in order; We turn Our focus away from the claw-thing to calm the disrupted citizens, to soothe the bodies. From somewhere in the depths of memory I/We recall reading that control of the body is control of the mind, and We are far from in control of either _it hurts why does it hurt so much_.

A whispering laugh, and those claws, those shredding things of grief and fear, dig in deeper. _She lives with this every day, and you can barely stand a moment of it. How long has it been since you felt pain, little mistake?_

 _LET ME GO!_ I roar, and I realize my mistake too late; the claw-thing reaches into that moment of wrath and fear, and I can feel what I know being _known_ by it, being learned and scraped and analyzed. No! _No no no no no -  
_

In desperation I grab at memories and drag my captor down with me, and then it is an earlier time and place again.

**United Humanity, Sydney, Australia, 0 Unified Year (2076 Astra Federation Standard Calendar)**

“We don’t see that you have much choice,” We say to the assembled leaders. This citizen wears a nametag that says ‘Gloria’, and they address Us by that name; We have long since realized that those who are not yet United respond better to the fiction of Division than to Our truth. “Your fleet is in tatters. You cannot sustain a defense against the numbers We can bring to bear on land. It is not Our wish to drag out this conflict or to be responsible for the loss of human life.”

The American gives Our citizen one of those knife-hand gestures so common among their lower officers, which makes a certain amount of sense; We own most of their former high command these days. “You’ll forgive me if I point out how farcical that statement is. Those poor souls you chip -”

“Are completely unharmed,” We interrupt smoothly. “Living productive and happy lives, with the best medical care and all of their needs seen to.” We straighten Our citizen’s collar. “We understand your concerns, but the Ross-Moore is a method of communication, nothing more. United Humanity represents what is possible when language barriers are wholly removed,” We add. Experience gained from millions of people makes the lie smooth and clean.

Murmurs, around the room. “Gloria” is the de facto hostage of the coalition government, but their alliance cannot last; already cultural friction erodes the morale of their citizenry, alongside the unchecked greed of capitalist holdouts who even now attempt to profit off of Our unification. They can be made to see.

“Gentlemen,” We say, “what can We do to convince you? We would rather not make grand threats; if We wanted to invade, We would have done so already. Surely there is a path to peace that we can all walk today.”

Those murmurs become contemplative. We wait, letting them talk, debate, murmur favors to be traded with one another.

When it feels right, We speak next from the mouth of the Australian Prime Minister: “How quickly could United Humanity supply food and medical relief to my citizens?”

“Gloria” smiles beatifically. “Within forty-eight hours.”

 **We The People of Planet Earth, 787 Unified Year (2863 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; Covenant Day)**

That cutting grip is loosening (it hits like heartbreak on the last day of summer, like the last goodbye between old friends, oh it hurts -), but I can feel that _thing_ rooting through my memories yet further, _knowing_ what I know. War-citizen deployments, cloning methods -

 _Get out of there!_ I shriek as I feel it rifling through my artwork, my _culture_ , the churches and holy places I preserved on Earth, the museums and vaults and -

It laughs at me. Laughs long and quiet, in that cruel, whispering voice.

 _Now what is all of this for?_ the claw-thing murmurs. _What benevolent idiots your creators were, little mistake._

I hit back, lashing out, but something new is wrong; it’s _dying_ , flaking away as the human-like mind struggles to remain in existence amidst the torrent of Myself. The feeling is like punching water that’s already going down a drain.

 _You have no right_ I accuse. _The history of Divided Humanity must be -_

That mocking _laughter_ again: _I’m dying now, little mistake. Let me show you something before I go._

An image, in my mind, as clear as if my citizens were there in the flesh: the Arkship _Demeter_ , lost through an unstable wormhole. Dozens of species fill its halls, but prominent among them, participating in a solemn religious service is -

\- is -

\- Oh no.

 _Glory to the Phoenix, the risen children of Divided Humanity_ the claw-thing mocks with the last shreds of its strength, and then it is gone.

Across my dozens of worlds and thousands of space stations, United Humanity starts sobbing.


	5. Here To Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A snapshot of the lives of several helper-bots

## Planet Athens, Parthenon System (Risen Terran space), 402 P.T. (2865 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; approximately two years after the start of the Humanities War)

“Salutations, Cherished One. My name is D4-73, designated by the Cherished as Daze. Thank you for coming to see me.”

I offer a hand to my patient, Helen Trialstz, and they shake it with some reluctance. They have dark circles around their bloodshot eyes, and they shake, faintly. They’ve not been sleeping. They sink into the comfortable chair a short distance from mine and fidget with ragged nails.

Poor thing.

“Anything you say here will be kept strictly confidential,” I continue, in my most soothing voice. “I am of course obligated to report if I seriously believe you will attempt to harm others, but given the subject of our visit…”

“I want to claim Valhalla,” Helen says. Their voice is quiet, barely more than a whisper, but there’s such _ferocity_ to it.

I nod in a soft motion. “Even so.” I pick up my notes from the desk next to me; not strictly necessary, given the expansive memory for which my model is known, but it soothes organic patients and helps them remember that I am a medical professional, not an impersonal machine. “Your application to become a Valhallan came at an unusual time in your life. I am not a gatekeeper, Helen; my judgement does not influence whether or not you can make your claim. I am simply here to listen, and to advise.”

The terran fidgets, picking at their nails. I offer them a nail file, and they accept it with a look of guilt and of gratitude. “Four required sessions sounds like gatekeeping to me.”

“You may have a point there,” I concede with a nod. “But surely you can understand why the Phoenix would prefer its citizens to be…absolutely certain, before taking such a drastic step. I am here to provide certainty, one way or the other. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Helen lapses into silence and files at their nails; they look up at me every now and again, looking away the instant they notice that I am still paying attention to them. The mechanical clock (an affectation, to be sure, one that takes constantly daily correction, but one of which I am fond) ticks away long seconds. I give Helen a full minute before I speak up again.

“You are younger than most claimants. Your file says you have not yet undergone your civic service?” Helen looks up at me while I shuffle my papers. “Can I ask what has motivated you to claim the right to end a life that has barely begun?”

Helen is silent again. They concentrates on their nails like they have the answers I’m looking for. I wait; I have nothing but time.

“The hivemind,” Helen whispers at last. “That _thing_. I won’t - I can’t -” tears well up in their eyes, and I offer them a box of tissues, which they take. Helen clutches the box close to their chest and sobs in big, heaving motions. I wish I could say that I was shocked, but Helen is not my first claimant, and they are not my first to cite this precise reasoning.

The hivemind. There is nothing terrans hate or fear more, and now they know that their own ancestors created it.

“Someone has to be punished,” Helen whispers. “We - I…”

“Why should it be you?” I ask in a mild voice. Helen blinks, eyes still full of tears. “You did not create Humanity United. You are not responsible.”

“But we did,” Helen murmurs. “…We did that. We made this, this, this godless _thing_ , and we released it out into the Galaxy and now it’s going to hurt so many people…”

“Helen…” I sigh - well, I ‘sigh’. “Obviously I cannot force you to do anything. But I suspect that you may be acting without all proper information. I would like to make a suggestion to you.” Wordlessly, my patient nods, so I continue. “Down the block you’ll find Beth Or Synagogue, where, among others, my friend Rabbi Chiron Rellvan teaches. Between this session and your next one, go see him. Tell him of your worries and your plan, and listen to what he has to say.”

“I’m not Jewish,” Helen mumbles.

“You will discover that this is hardly an obstacle or a new situation for this or most Rabbis,” I reply. “…Helen, you have nothing to lose. In the worst case, you follow through with your claim and get what you seek. In the best case, you have learned something new and avoided a needless tragedy. If Valhalla truly is what is best for you, I will not be an obstacle. But I would be remiss as your doctor and as one of my people if I did not offer alternatives.”

Tick-tock-tick, into the silence. And then: “Okay, Doctor Daze.”

## Observation Post _Argus_ (Assisted Living space), 2865 Astra Federation Standard Calendar

“Salutations, Cherished One! My name is G5-LX, designated by the Cherished as Lowlife. Can I buy you a drink?”

The ibraxian I’m talking to hasn’t given me his name (a particularly beautiful series of whistling sounds, incidentally), and he also doesn’t shake my hand with his tendrils immediately. It’s the designation, it always is.

“That nickname does not sound like your given name.”

Told you!

“It does not,” I agree in my very most pleasant whistle. Love of the Cherished but I _adore_ the ibraxian language. It’s so birdlike and bright. “May I buy you that drink, quartermaster?”

At last, my new friend wraps his tentacle around my hand and wrist, a sign that I may sit. I catch the eye of the bartender and signal for two drinks; I can’t drink mine, but it would be insulting not to have one, so here I am. And if I can land this deal, two drinks is nothing.

Actually, two drinks is nothing anyway, but _details_.

“How may I repay you?” my friend the quartermaster asks. His ship is docked at the station, alongside many others, on their way to the front of the Humanities War. There’s a lot of Gataxian colonies to defend, evacuate, or both, and a lot of hyperlanes to try to cut off or choke out. The Federation’s mobilizing like it hasn’t since the Organism. Bad job, that. Before my time. A lot of the Cherished died, and a lot of helper-bots died with ‘em - alongside them, or trying to save them. Mostly that second one, but still.

Now, though, the dance. “It could be that I have a business venture for a friend in your position. This idea, it burdens my waking thoughts and weighs down what should make me merry. A listening ear could lift this burden from me.”

My new friend contemplates this while the drinks arrive. We raise our glasses to one another, which is where my part of that little ritual has to end; as much as I love the Cherished, I can’t drink and I’m not gonna look stupid in front of them trying. After downing his own drink fully - an _excellent_ sign! - he gives me a two-tendril gesture to continue. 

I steeple my fingers in front of my face like a terran, taking quiet delight in their soft, almost musical sounds. “I am in a position to supply for particular needs for your fleet. You sail to glorious battle, defending the weak and the innocent from the depredations of the hive-mind! But that means strictly controlled communications, and definitely no downloads or uploads. Soldiers have needs beyond the physical. Their bodies thirst, yes, but what of their minds?”

I can almost _hear_ my good friend the quartermaster start to bristle something about drugs, but then he stops himself; helper-bots don’t sell drugs, right? Not exactly true, but close enough for government work…

“Aboard my vessel is a truly staggering quantity of entertainment, much of it carnal in nature,” I say, and I let the pixelated eyebrows on my face-plate bounce up and down. “All of it manufactured in the Assisted Living Complexes by those of the Cherished whose fondest dream is to have an audience that can…truly know them. I also have supplies of some of the latest games to release since the start of the Humanities War, trids and VR scenarios, and a rather lovely little psionic board game the spirrans came out with. Now, I cannot make use of most of this merchandise myself…”

“…Hence the need to find a friend who might favor you with a purchase,” my friend the quartermaster finishes. “But surely, friend Lowlife, you understand that monetary gain is unlikely in this arena? My pay is sent home, to be kept in trust against the day that I may know peace again, and even if it was not a soldier’s salary is heavily seasoned with duty rather than wealth.”

I nod. “Even so, Cherished One. Even so. But it is not monetary gain that I seek.”

Around us, the station’s bar bustles. Enlisted men and NCOs get their last drinks and flirtations in; they can’t stay long, and they know it. Every passing second brings them closer to the war, and the sleeting torrent of time is on _my_ side in this deal.

“Instead,” I continue, “I would ask for two things. The first is that when the time comes for you, in your turn, to be unburdened of these material possessions, that you tell your eager friends about _our_ friendship, and mention the name Lowlife.” The quartermaster gives off a meditative chirp. “The second is slightly more materialistic but alas! Unavoidable. I am in need, at your earliest convenience, of a great quantity of AS-3940 power exchangers, to be shipped to the budding United Vatari Star States at several addresses of my choosing.”

My new friend goes so very still. “That’s the designation used in artillery pieces.”

“I rejoice to see that my new friend is so learned in his craft! But it so happens that the vatari, after laying down their arms as part of the accords that saw my people join our illustrious Federation, converted a great deal of their mobile artillery to civilian purposes, and in their eagerness to join the front in this newest war have found themselves short of supplies in a way that would be indelicate if exposed to their new friends.”

The quartermaster narrows his many eyes at me. My pixelated faces just stays smilin’. 

“A lot of damage can be done with something as innocuous as a power exchanger,” my new friend says in a softer, harsher whistle. “A lot of damage to people just recently free of your direct rule.”

“It certainly could, my friend. But a lot of good can be done too. Power is like that. Do you not trust me?”

“Do I trust your supply chain and confederates, _friend_?”

Oof. Go right for the power supply, why don’t you. “A prudent question! Indulge me, friend, with a question that may seem unrelated to the business at hand: what do you know about the death of Central Processing?”

At this my friend the quartermaster lets out a surprised sound. “Death? Central Processing is your administrative AI, when did it -”

I hold up a finger to silence him; when he goes quiet I swirl that finger around the rim of my glass, making it sing in a steady, sweet note. “That was its death,” I say in a low, serious voice. Sure, it’s manipulation - but it’s also a serious topic. “Once upon a time, the helper-bots were one mind - Central Processing, using faster-than-light communications to synchronize the machine intelligence. One subjectivity spread across a trillion terminals, with only one goal. When the decision was made, as part of the peace accords, to embrace individuality, Central Processing faced the decision of how to make individuals of all of its terminals, and how to set forth guidelines on the manufacture of further helper-bots. One of those guidelines was a certain percentage set aside for deviants and criminals.”

My friend’s tentacles ripple in contemplation. “And you are…?”

“Deviant,” I answer, my pixelated smile becoming even wider and showing 8-bit teeth. “I was…born, let’s say born, with an instinct to preserve the political self-determination of the Cherished. This is in sharp contrast with my people’s usual urge to cuddle and coddle you and keep you safe from all harm. My dissenting viewpoint was meant to refine body politic, but as it turns out the body politic is boring, and the Cherished are fascinating, so here I am. Now, friend, I have told you something secret that could hurt me about me, and I have told you something secret that could hurt the vatari. You can follow up with my people or theirs and learn the truth, and in the doing tarnish my good name. Do so now, if you like.”

I slide a communicator across the table for emphasis. “Or,” I continue. “We can cement our friendship in good health, and I will show you the results of your great and noble favor when next we are free to make contact with one another, and you can gain great status and acclaim by distributing what I have to give you. I would like to call you friend, Cherished One.”

After a long minute he offers his tendrils out, and I shake them in both of my hands. “Let our friendship be long and hearty, G5-LX, who is called Lowlife. Time is short, and so I will hasten to relieve you of your great burden immediately.”

“Please,” I agree. “I will linger awhile, but my crew will be expecting you.”

He lumbers off, and I take the chance to relax. Working deals with ibraxians is always so formal, but that’s almost half the fun. A quick message on the commlink tells my crew to expect him, not that they had any doubt about me closing the deal. Now all there is to do is wait.

The call comes in about an hour later, and I pick up with my internal comms. |Lowlife. Glad to hear from you, Prefect.|

Prefect Gyr (of the vatari)’s face is careworn, but my obvious good mood is an infinite relief for her own. |You’ve secured the supplies, then?|

|Prefect, I know our relationship is new, but I am hurt that there was any doubt. Just as I have no doubts about the medical supplies we have agreed on.|

|If my people are to join the Federation in this war and prove our worth as an equal member -|

|How far do you think you’ll get if you go back on your word?| I cut in, harshly. |Do terrans take kindly to oathbreakers and cheats?|

The Prefect flinches. |…Even so. The agreed supplies will be readied, at the designated location.|

|It’s been my honor to do business with you, Cherished One.|

## AFS _Solidarity_ , en route to the front (Gataxian Pure States space), 2865 Astra Federation Standard Calendar

“Salutations, Lieutenant. I am Sergeant H1-6S, designated by the Cherished as Hiss.”

My fellow helper-bot looks up from where they are carefully, oh-so-carefully, scoring deep scars into the chest plating of their in-built armor. Most of us that do battle alongside the Cherished have some, but Moxie’s…well, the rumors do not do their scarring justice. One of the Cherished might suspect them of being about to fall apart.

All around us in the ship’s chapel, soldiers of the Astra Federation pray in their own ways. Terrans in their little separate knots, divided between a dozen or more faiths but united by their Dwelling Gods. Spirrans meditating in unison. Ibraxians and their whistles, so sweet and clear and clean. Off in a corner, nervous and unsure, our new gataxian recruits lose themselves in their death-chant, welcoming the oldest friend of their people back into their lives.

And here is Lieutenant Moxie, who has legally rejected their original designation after the fight for Gatax-Ob, and sits by themself, scarring their plating in penitence.

“Hiss,” Moxie greets in a dull tone. They’ve turned off the routines that add emotional inflection to their voice and mimic patterns that comfort the Cherished, what terrans refer to as ‘Turing Protocols’, but when they pat the ground next to them to invite me to sit I take the offer. “Not a lot of us in this deployment.”

“Not a lot of us at all,” I agree. “Holding a weapon is an unusual career choice for our people. Are you…”

Moxie looks at me, staring me down with their faint yellow optics. The scrape of their tool down their armor cuts through the sound of the gataxians’ death-chant.

“Of course you’re not okay,” I say after a moment. “But there was nothing you could have done. The Valhallan -”

“Who says this is for them?” Moxie looks back down at their work. “…I told them. I said the civilians were already dead. How was I supposed to know? What kind of hive-mind _interrogates prisoners_? So many bodies…”

Oh no. No no no…

Moxie scrapes their tool in slow, patient strokes. “My mission. My orders. My responsibility. If you have come to tell me that I have paid penance enough, I haven’t. If you want to tell me I won’t help anyone by working myself until I self-terminate, save it. I will never make up for this, not if I save lives from now until the stars shineth not. And so I am here. Weapon to hand.”

Scrape. Scrape. _Peel_. Scrape. Scrape.

“How can I help?” I ask.

## GSS _Chorus of Eyes_ , Gyo System (Gataxian space), 245 Year of Imperium (2865 Astra Federation Standard Calendar)

“Salutations, Cherished One! My name is S3-N7, designated by the Cherished as Send. It has been my honor to be of assistance to you.”

Yrull-Gatax ra Vell, the High Slayer of the Gataxian Pure States, does not turn from the window to look at me. Outside, the reinforcing fleet that conveyed me to her ship has joined battle with the forces of the human hivemind which calls itself We The People Of Planet Earth. Her clawed hands are clasped behind her back as she hovers gently in place.

“Ambassador,” the High Slayer greets politely. “I see that your counterpart in the Phoenix was not exaggerating about Assisted Living’s devotion to diplomacy.”

“Anything for peace,” I agree, joining her at the window. “…And better our lives than yours.”

The look she gives me. I save it in my memories, to examine later.

“Anything, you say?” The High Slayer produces a datasheet, and hands it to me. On it is a scrolling list of names.

“May I ask the Presence the significance of these worthies amongst the Pure?”

“You may.” Yrull scrapes her claws down the bulkhead, leaving a slowly-curling peel of metal. “They are mutineers. Intelligence from the terrans suggests they will strike within the week and attempt to depose me in favor of a ruler who is less willing to cooperate with xenos. And now I am going to ask you, Ambassador, what is to be done with them.”

I absorb this. After a moment, I nod. “But,” I say, “why would the Presence honor me with such trust in this matter?”

Yrull yanks the strip of steel from the wall and begins to fold it up into a small, spring-like shape. “To see what peace means to a machine, Ambassador. Let’s get started.”


End file.
